Uhhhhh yeah, sorry you're all gonna die.
' Uhhhhh Yeah, Sorry You're All Gonna Die.' Botard was very good at running away from people in Arkrest. Over the years it might have become one of his most talented skills. His trick was to pick his directions randomly, not knowing where he was going himself, and then to make the person he was running from believe that in order to make them lose sight of the fact that Botard actually just knew the layout of the city very well. Sometimes though, Botard would get lost. He looked around in either direction. Oh, shit. Sometimes I forget that I’m a fucking idiot. ''Trash was all around him, but none of it smelled like fish. It smelled much more like several dozen darkly clad figures, each holding a candle and staring at him in doughy faced pathos. One woman was crying. ''Oh. A funeral. Gods, fate sucks. He waved a hand and let loose a lackadaisical “Heeyyyyyy…” as he sauntered by, half naked, half beaten, and reeking of alcohol and sweat. He whistled as he walked past them and into another alley. He took refuge in a pile of trash that smelled more like fish, falling quickly asleep, with a grip on the sack in his hands that not even Unquala herself could loosen. He woke up aching and reeking, as he did many mornings, but unlike many mornings he felt as though he had just gone to sleep after crying for a very long time, a feeling he had not experienced since he was a young child. The world seemed oddly light and unreal. His mind was somehow reeling. Pangs of hunger from a vacuous stomach helped to ground him back to reality. As he stood up to find a group of dogs to fight for scraps of food, something heavy fell off his chest and his the ground with a dull clank. Oh right, I’m carrying a king’s ransom in gold and I’m supposed to raise an army of mindless cultists for the lady of death. He squinted up to the sky and let loose an audible moan. He looked peaked his head around the corner of the trash pile that he had slumped in, arching an eyebrow, scanning the alley for any jackasses that would try to make him do more work to survive. When he was satisfied that he was alone he opened the bag, peering inside from above, quietly rummaging through it. Rings, jewelry. Random things. He scooped up some random trash, pouring it over the gold, then hefted the sack over his shoulder with a grunt. He made his best wild-eyed, spent-the-night-in-a-pile-of-trash-because-he-kills-homeless-people-for-money face and moved in a lopsided, ill manner through the port until he reached a small abandoned warehouse that he spent most of his nights in. The unassuming grey building was always kept full of less-foul smelling trash to make it less appealing to any other vagrants or gangs who might decide to make it theirs, and it sat right near the coastline so a constant wind seemed to circulate fresh air into it. It was a great place to live. He took a knife from a pile of trash that he had hidden it in and began to dig a small hole. After finishing the hole he scanned the area from a broken window. He could see a few men unloading a ship a couple dozen feet away. Quietly, he unpacked all of the gold but a single ring into the hole. Afterwards, he tossed the trash from the sack outside (It did not smell to his liking. He kept a higher standard of trash here) and pulled forth the book. He began reading. This is fucking written in blood. I love this guy. '' It was hot. Waves of heat emanated from the energy of 37 seething, quiet men. Saren fought the urge to plunge head first into the small, crystalline spring that bubbled before him. Thick tribal paints were caked onto his face as he stood in a line with five other acolytes. Other recruits like him, or so he thought. In the close quarters of the cave he could plainly analyze each other hardened, dirty face. The others wore no mask like he and the recruits. He saw hard working, desperate men. As Laenar, their holy leader stepped forward he saw something different. He glanced quickly at Morn, the acquaintance of his who had recommended him to this position. Apologetic blue eyes stared back at him, and he returned his gaze to Laenar. His face had the quality of a whip. It was sharp and seemed tense and ready to crack, to rip tears in flesh at breakneck speed. Long brown hair framed his face as he waded through the spring, parallel to the line of new recruits. He stepped back into the water and smiled at them with his lips and teeth. A row of men, painted to mirror the recruits fell into line behind him on the rock. The each held a crossbow. His face ''cracked and energy, like lightning, raised gooseflesh on every man in the cave “YOU ARE NOTHING!” The crossbows fired and Saren felt the bolt take him in the face. His word spun and adrenaline rocked him. Initiation had begun. The Host lied. The men who sought its reach felt nothing like the calm of death to Saren. They felt like fire-blooded animals, beaten and sick. They worshipped no goddess, the gods looked away from them. They may have even cursed some of them, in the crippling of spirit that victims reflected into the eyes of those who stood and watched. Those who escaped that curse, those deepest, maddest of criminals were beyond the gods’ reach; demons. Saren hated them, and he had learned to hate himself. At the end of the day, he bought food, payed rent, and drowned in blood. He might have even died, the first time he looked into his mothers eyes, and saw that look there, recognizing the pain of her life only as she wasted away. She would hold his hand and tell him that he was a strong boy, the best son she could ask for. And now, all the bloodshed had paid off, perhaps. He got to pick his own Coffin and now here, quietly rowing in a low, wide ship with five other men in a warm rain, maybe things would improve some. “You don’t like doing this, do you Saren?” Laenar’s eyes glittered with malice. There was no point in arguing. “I worship the ''peace ''of death, Lord.” '' ''Laenar’s smile widened expectantly, and he arched an eyebrow with perfect expertise. “No.” '' ''“No, you don’t, Saren. But I like you, because I see right fucking through you. You’re just desperate. Not desperate like we are, but I’m willing to bet that you have someone important in your life who you do this shit for.” He paused. “I think you even picked us because you thought we were ''better ''than the ''other ''groups. But…you underestimated how horrible dying can be, didn’t you?” '' ''“Yes, Lord.” Laenar loved obedience. It kept him from cracking, and Saren lacked the will to deal with an outburst or a beating. '' “Well, like I said, I like that about you. I think I can trust you. So you’re leading your own coffin. You can pick from some of the new men.” '' '' “What?” Saren gulped. He felt as though a bucket of cold water had been throw upon him to wake him up. '' '' “Whoever you want, really.” Obviously none of Laenar’s favorite psychopaths. “I need another leader who I can trust or we’ll start downsizing. There’s a shipment of spices in from Arn and I’ve got a buyer.” '' '' “You can trust me, Lord.” '' '' Laenar leaned into a ray of sunlight cast from a yellowed warehouse window and looked away “And see if you know anyone who has a good idea for a new place where we can Worship.”'' '' '' The cave had to be abandoned a week prior. Someone had been selling the Host out to the Guard, and there were conflicts with other groups, the Skulls, the Flag of Pandor, the Breaknecks…war was around every corner. '' '' '' The small craft approached its destination, a large galley, and Saren was grateful as the rainfall increased. Less easy to be heard or seen by guards. Right now if all was going according to plan, two more unobtrusive ships were on their way over with four more of his men to unload stolen goods. Two guards had been visible from a greater distance, stationary in the soaking rain facing opposite directions on the aftercastle of the ship, they’d be easy kills. Saren tossed a grappling hook over the edge of the ship and despite its padded grips he flinched at the soft thump it made. He pulled tight the knotted rope and began to climb. Gottard came up behind him followed by Syk, Crane, Lure, and finally the massive bulk of the Soan barbarian, Engrad. The all knew their jobs. Engrad, Gottard and Crane headed below decks to flush out any men sleeping aboard, or any other surprises while Lure and Saren took out the guards. As Saren climbed up the deck his fingers gripped the wet bone handle of his knife with a white knuckled hold. His hands were freezing. The guard was completely unaware. He checked Lure. Same story. He gave the signal. Hot blood spurted over his forearm as he plunged his dagger at an upward angle into the other man’s throat, grabbing his mouth with his other arm. He heard no noise from Lure’s side and checked over. All went well. He gently laid down the body and looked at the blood on his arm. Oddly enough, killing didn’t truly bother Saren horribly much. He sent a short prayer to Unquala, wishing the men they killed an easy passage. Lure interrupted his reverie. “All golden, eh?” the Arkrest native was almost 40 and missing most of his teeth, and his tan skin had deep lines carved into it from years spent aboard ships doing odd jobs. Still, some internal part of Saren recognized that the man really was a rare practical breed who had stumbled into his current position through some sort of odd set of circumstances; he had picked him for the job because he was mostly normal. “Yeah, looks like it,” he whispered back, too soon as he heard a shout from below, a deep bellow muffled by rain and wood. He sighed. “Fuck. Let’s go.” As he spoke he was already flying to the door to the lower deck, throwing it open and darting down the stairs without looking back. Emerging into the lower deck through an ajar door Saren had a glimpse of the Soan, covered in blood, standing and heaving amidst no less than a dozen corpses and tattered hammocks. For a brief moment their eyes met, and Saren saw something terrible in that man. There was a violence there that held no allegiance there, a rage that cared nothing for lives, and obliterated men as a force of nature. He turned away, goosebumps dotting his flesh, as he heard a yelp from the hold and ran down. The light was dim, almost black, a torch in the stairwell shining down and the embers of an extinguished wall-torch burning inside casting the only glow into the hold. Gottard knelt above three disheveled corpses. He spat as he stood, addressing Saren. Three scratch marks were puffy and red on the left side of his face. There was a small amount of smeared blood, and shadows played grotesque games upon Gottard’s face, making it look frightening and dead. “Syk caught a third guard down here fucking some tramp. Got lazy, wound up dead.” He smiled, though in the dim light Saren only saw a zombie baring its teeth. “I guess that’s what you get though, right? I mean…fuck, pretty sure I’d take out a full army by myself if you drew a knife on me in the middle of the act.” Saren laughed nervously as Gottard pushed past him to get upstairs, but his laughter was cut short as he re-lit the fallen torch in the room. The man Gottard had been kneeling over had been stabbed from behind, and there was a thick glob of bloody spit laying on the back of his head. Saren thought and thought about it. The more he spoke to Gottard, the more he worked with him, the more certain he was that the man was the informant who had tipped the Guard off about the Host. He was so much more alive than the other men. He didn’t shared not their dour-cast scarred faces or their aberrant psychologies. His cheeriness never seemed to falter, but his derision for so many of the others was plain, and Saren cherished that. Saren lived vicariously through the spit and the curses of Gottard. Turning him in to Laenar was beyond any question. There were times though when the other man’s good humor seemed inappropriate, unsettling in its unwavering consistency. He never missed a beat. Rumor had it that he had gone through the entire initiation silent, electing only to smile and pat Laenar on the back saying “another day in the life, eh?” before letting his blood into a chalice. Laenar himself seemed to hate the man, who was uncowed by either beating or screaming, and Gottard was always on the edge of the violent man’s tolerance. There was a time when Saren was certain that Gottard wouldn’t last in the Host, when he had devalued Laenar’s sneers and knife shaped personality too often, but just in the nick of time the grinning man offered a solution. ''“Oh Laenar, my most benevolent of Lords?” '' ''The other man sighed and turned, utterly unamused. “Yes?” '' ''“I have a new cave for our brotherhood. It’s a bit of a walk from the town, but I can guarantee that none other knows of its existence.” '' The search for a new meeting place had been a tedious one, and Gottard played his cards well, announcing his discovery in the midst of all the other men, who immediately excited themselves over the matter. The ploy for popularity was only increased by the fact that Gottard’s cave was utterly perfect. More spacious than the past, with a narrow crag deep within opening the ceiling to the light, allowing perfect beams of sunlight to fall down magically upon the sloshing water the circulated through the majority of the cave. Laenar loved to stand in it as he gave lectures, dictating the will of Unquala. A million calculations passed through Saren’s head every day, as he analyzed his lone friend in the Host. In the end, he had determined without a doubt that Gottard was the leak. More importantly, he wanted to help him end the Grim Host. It was during a meeting that he moved to approach him. Laenar stood in the last faint light of evening, dictating his plans for the group and Gottard left to gather potable water to fuel the despot’s dry throat. Saren simply left to follow him and no one noticed or questioned his absence. He trailed behind the other man, climbing the slippery, rocky path to the clifftop. He saw Gottard reach the top and stop. He didn’t look back, he just stopped, and seemed to breathe deeply before walking on. “''He’s a mute. Fucking Soan dog.” '' '' “Dumb. Hah, I wonder if he’s deaf too, it’s like he doesn’t even hear a thing. Just sits there staring like a fucking rock.” '' A stone sailed through the air and hit Engrad in the back of the head. He turned around. His hand clenched tight along the handle of Cataclysm. Berragale. Poorly shaven, beads for eyes. Likely beaten as a child, grew up terrorizing others. He was intimidated by a larger man. Engrad looked him up and down. A bulge beneath the tongue of a boot revealed a hidden knife. '' Engrad grunted. Fucking Lancers. So concerned with hierarchy. So concerned with needless fucking bullshit. Violence makes equals of all men. Death makes equals of all men. He rose. Lightning flashed in his eyes, and he drew Cataclysm. Other men began to draw their weapons, to rise from their seats on sun-warmed boxes, lying on the dock. “Woah there, friends.” Gottard. Smooth talking Lancer. Engrad liked him passively; only because others hated him. “Berragale, it was a rather rude thing to throw that rock!” '' ''Some people laughed. Berra did not. “Yeah, it was meant to be rude ya fuckin’ twat.” '' ''“And now you’ve insulted me! I’m-I’m hurt!” Gottard looked at the Soan. “Look, that’s uh, quite the sword you have there but how about we settle this my way? Nobody needs to die.” ''Nobody needs to die. ''He said it like a salesman. '' ''“Does your way involve me bending over like your big dumb friend?” Scattered laughter from degenerates. “Because if that’s the case I’d rather do things my way.” '' ''Gottard exaggerated a stretch. “No no, not at all. He mostly fucks corpses by the way, if you’ve paid any attention. He also killed a dockhand bare handed with a short sword sticking through his bicep a few weeks ago, so you should thank me for doing you the favor of kicking your ass myself.” '' ''Everyone turned to the Soan with a sort of awe and terror. One man whispered “He does what…” Berragale just stared. '' '' “Well, if you ask me---“ Gottard tossed aside his weapons and looked expectantly at Berra. “---it’s much better than some of the things I’ve seen Berra here doing.” He spoke through clenched teeth. The other man disarmed himself. Engrad kept his hand upon the handle of his sword. The other man had kept the boot knife. No fucking respect. '' ''Berragale charged into Gottard, who stuck his legs out behind him, leaning his center of mass onto the other man’s incoming shoulders. The two grappled and punch, and Engrad liked watching the other man fight. He had been well trained, and he respected that. He sensed that had Gottard intended on being lethal or maiming the other man that it would have been much more one sided. Eventually, Gottard gained the high ground, straddled on top of the other man, beating him. The fight should have ended. Engrad watched Berra’s hand go to his boot, and Gottard felt the man’s leg raise to accommodate it. In one quick move, he hand the knife from the other man’s hand and stabbed him with it repeatedly. First in the hands, then the side, then the throat. '' ''The others stood mute. Engrad had not expected the easygoing man to be so violent. Again he was impressed. Gottard rose and laughed. '' ''“What a prick. Who draws a knife like that?” '' ''Engrad long deliberated on whether or not the other man had gone into the fight with the intent to kill. '' '' A few days passed before Gottard approached the Soan, smiling as always. “Hello, you terrifying barbarian, you.” Engrad analyzed him. He was armed, tense. “I want you to know, I think that you’re being underestimated by these men. You react when people say…” he struggled for a moment “words that matter. Yeah those things. You just don’t like to talk. Well, that’s fine by me.” He raised his hands up in a show of goodwill. “I just want you to know that I think you and I are more alike than most of the other scum here.” He lowered his voice, “''and I think that you should keep that terrifying sword there with you during our next meeting.”'' Engrad gave the man a look. “I mean hey, or don’t. I doubt anyone will try to take it from you though.” '' ''The Soan offered a hand. “I am Engrad. These men are all liars. They know ''nothing of death. I was born of a dead man, and I kill everyone. You kill everyone too, and so we are the same.” His speech was almost entirely without accent.'' “Oh. Yeah buddy, well I’m glad we’re on the same page.” The man smiled a disarming grin and shook the Soan’s calloused hand. Botard breathed deeply at the top of the cliff. The wind roared. He prayed that the vial in his hand did what he had overheard. “---Hit the Skulls. Use this. It will bring and explosion to their base; fire and force like rocks bursting in flame. You’ll be paid---” All that time spent acclimating Laenar to his physical nature, hands on shoulders, grabby hugs, had made picking the man’s pocket a simple task. He produced the silver vial. He was to expose it to fire and get far away. He had read about it a few weeks ago, before he revealed the location of the cave. Dragon’s Tongue. He assumed it was the same stuff. He had wanted to buy some but it was going to cost almost everything he had to get it shipped. In the period of time where he debated whether it would be worth it, he overheard the conversation between Laenar and a client. The gods walked with him still. “Gottard!” The noise pulled him back from his reverie. “Gottard! I want to talk to you!” Fuck. '' He turned around. Saren. Saren was alright. “Gottard…” he panted as he spoke. “I’m sorry, I know this seems strange but…are you the leak?” Botard looked at the man. He was a wreck, as he was most days. Not the worst fellow though. “Nope. No I am not.” He said the words in the least convincing way possible. One of his many talents. Saren looked him in the eyes. ''Oh boy this is gonna get weird, I can feel it. “Well…if you were, I want you to know that I understand.” Botard sighed. “Well…” he waved the vial, and Saren’s eyes glued themselves to the shiny silver container. “I’m not a spy from the guard, I’m actually just some homeless man who’s come here to kill all of you. I mean all but one.” As he spoke, a dagger flashed. Saren moved to stop it but was too slow. He felt it scrape between his ribs. And slide out. As the world came black and dizzy it slid back in. All he could wonder was why. Botard stood up over the corpse. Best to stick to the plan; that kid was way too much of a bitch to join the Vix. And one can’t leave survivors when one is using an expensive stolen explosive from a foreign entity now can they? He wiped his hands clean of the blood and moved forward to a deep hole he had dug in the turf, just over a dozen feet away from the jutting edge of the cliff. He placed the vial in the hole and unraveled what appeared to be a very long wick, lighting it after several failed attempts in the biting wind. He backed away and waited. The whole world turned upside down. Fire erupted from the ground, and a noise more thunderous and deafening than anything botard had ever heard before assaulted his ears. A wave of heat blasted him in the face, and the scent of burned hair filled his nostrils. He watched as thousands of pounds of rock came crashing down into the cave’s entrance and was left feeling only mild regret towards the fact that he didn’t have more of those mysterious vials. A special sheen of sweat and soot clung to his face, and he did his best to wipe it clean before wandering over towards the crag farther back along the cliff that let sunlight into the tunnels. Faint echoes of commotion wafted towards him from the ground. He savored them. Almost nine weeks being treated like human garbage (not that they were wrong to do so of course), this certainly felt liberating. Now he could move onto phase two of his plan. Phase two involved way less beatings. A coiled rope ladder was left near the opening of the crag. Botard got on his belly and shouted down “Hello!” Responses were mixed. Botard eventually heard Laenar’s voice pierce through the murmur. “Gottard? Is that you? What the fuck ''just happened?” ''Jerk. ''“What happened is that I stole your shiny vial…thing. And I’m killing all of you. Well, all but one anyway. Sorry, but them’s the breaks.” More commotion. A few different people offered diplomatic solutions. Botard ignored them. “I actually have a ladder up here. However, it’s only going to carry one of you. The rest of you get to fight to the death over that honor. Also, the tide should come in pretty hard tonight. That’s why I know no one knows about the cave. It’s usually under water.” There was a stir. Men looked around at one another. ''33. Maybe five knives. Laenar hushed those around him and looked back towards the light. “Gottard, look. We can bargain here. If it’s money you want we can get it for you. I doubt you’ve figured out where our stores are.” What disgusting bullshit. Lesser men like him can never wrap their heads around it when a situation is out of their control. Not that it really is. Odds are, we could clear away most of those rocks and get out of here if everyone worked together and waited for the water to get waist deep and make the load lighter and easier to move. Plus with the waves crashing against the rocks from the outside… Calculations rushed through Engrad’s head. Gottard shouted down “Well, no, you see I actually am dedicated to the holiest lady of death. So as I see it I’m doing her an honor by killing all of you blasphemers. Whichever of you lives, if any of your do, is welcome to join my new cult by the way. I hear it’s going to be really cool.” Engrad watched Laenar run his fingers through his hair. Better to start the mayhem now, before anyone figures out that they have a chance to escape. He had neither moved nor spoken since the meeting had been called, lurking perched atop a large flat rock like some species of extraordinarily ferocious gargoyle. Not even the thunderous noise or the falling rock had perturbed him; dust had settled upon his skin like some sort of poorly arranged camouflage. Hungry blue eyes darted to the man sitting in front of him. He was easily a full hand shorter than Engrad. He had called out some obscenities at Gottard earlier. A dusty grey hand reached out and clamped down like a vice upon the man’s mouth. Tree-trunk arms held him still until he struggled no more. No one had noticed. Lure had been calling out ideas with the rest, trying to rationalize with Gottard while Laenar directed several others to inspect the full damage of the collapse when he heard the crunch of gravel to his left. He turned, and stalking from the shadows in the back of the cave was a demon, clad in a tattered black shirt with ash-grey skin, holding a sword the length of a man. Blue eyes shone like funeral pyres from the dirty face as Lure turned, and the massive sword swung up and then down, shattering collarbone, crumpling the weak man that it struck. Engrad roared. The slaughter began. Most of the men were unarmed and unarmored, and Cataclysm cut swathes of blood through the air. Crimson was everywhere Engrad looked. Knives had bled his back, his hands. Weak men clawed his face, and he pulverized them all. Splintering bones and screams beat a dirge alongside the blood rushing through his mind that enveloped the outer world. He screamed and scattered men, tearing through them until the water in the cave, knee deep, was dark red and warm. Skulls were beat into stones, fingers pushed through eyes and felt softness beneath, and the slaughter went on. Engrad worshipped. He worshipped death, he worshipped carnage and bloodshed and madness. He brought these men down to nothing. In less than an hour, the entire faux-hierarchy of their imagined worlds came crashing down, split in half by a ten pound blade. He held their falsehoods under the blood, and watched them struggle and drown. Botard had grown slightly bored and was on the verge of nodding off when a new anguished, bloody scream tore through the night. Engrad again. Botard listened patiently. No begging, no lesser screams. Looks like it was all done. Or Engrad died. He hoped not, he had sort of liked that guy. He waited a few more moments before calling down; if there was active killing going on he didn’t want to spoil the moment. “Hello? All done?” “I AM ENGRAD, AND I HAVE KILLED THEM ALL.” Botard smiled. Good. “I never doubted you for a second, my man! Ladder’s coming down, are you ready?” “Yes!” He tossed down the rope ladder, tossing a loop at the end around a large boulder that sat not too far off. He also grabbed a crossbow that he had stowed earlier with the ladder, and leaned back over the edge. He saw the Soan climbing up alone. His face was a torn and bloody mess, and a knife was stuck in his leg. It appeared as though another smaller one threatened to fall from his back. As the man climbed, blood spurted, and Botard began to wonder if he wouldn’t just die and fall off. I guess that would be Unquala’s will though…And just my luck. The large man made it all the way up. Botard had planned on backing away and leveling the crossbow at the man, but against his better judgement he grabbed his arm and helped him up. The barbarian sighed. “I killed them all. I did it.” He sighed, “Gods it felt good.” Botard smiled and opened his backpack. “I packed a lunch for the winner? Oh look what’s in here…there’s some cheese…some meat even…mmmmmm…” he rummaged through the bag before tossing it over. “I need…bandages…” Engrad sighed and slumped against the boulder. He grabbed the bag of food anyway. “I have those too, don’t worry. I’m always prepared.” Botard said with not a little pride. “So, do you wanna hear about our new cult? I assume you’re joining. I hope you are anyway, I’d look pretty slick with a guy like you at my back.” Engrad sighed and closed his eyes. “You can tell me about it.” '' '' '' '' '' '' Category:Character lore